interlude one: devil

What now? - the whispers and the screams;
A stereotypical profiling ritual, vicious and obscene.

Never in a million years did Oberon Lavellan expect to wind up here.

Honestly, it's like something out of a fever dream. His name up in lights, prefaced by the ever-gleaming title of Head Gamemaker… stars, he can't wrap his head around it. Just five years ago he was stuck minding dozens upon dozens of burnout students in the halls of Capitol West's vocational school, and now he's designing an arena for the Hunger Games. Sure, it's no cabinet job - he's not a Minister like his mother, or a premier engineer like his mother - but it's a career worthy of clout.

At least that's what Tal would say.

She'd been the one to accept Snow's request, actually. Oberon hadn't even known his name was in the running for Gamemaker until she'd tossed the letter at him one evening after work. Opened, of course, because Tal has always been the sort to stick her nose in others' business, regardless of whether or not her attention is wanted. He can still remember her excitement, the manic lilt that crept into her voice as she popped open a bottle of champagne -

"Oberon Lavellan, Head Gamemaker," she'd practically cooed. "Title's got a nice ring to it, don't you think? Not quite as sexy as 'Master of Ceremonies, Tal Velasquez,' but I guess beggars can't be choosers."

(He remembers her giggling as she put her hand on her stomach, swollen and plump from several months of pregnancy, eyes positively gleaming. He thinks he told her something about watching the drinks, but as usual she'd brushed him off, too enraptured by the verve of self-gratification to listen to logic.)

Classic Tal, Oberon muses, shaking his head. Always in it for the attention. Fame, fortune, fashion… can't say I blame her. Although it would've been nice to have a say in my own career path; gamemaking positions aren't exactly stable these days…

"But beggars can't be choosers," he reminds himself, words no more than a mumble as he leans in over Emilia's crib, then reaches in to heft the infant up into his arms. Her little hands immediately grab for his (neatly-trimmed) moustache, and Oberon just barely manages to angle his head away, narrowly avoiding an aesthetic catastrophe.

"Baba!" The baby shrieks with delight, and Oberon boops her nose with his index finger, a half-smile overtaking his face in response to the child's antics. Too cute, he thinks as she reaches for his finger instead, her chubby little fingers tickling as they bat at his own.

"That's right, kiddo," he chuckles. "Daddy's back from work. And you would not believe the day I had -"

"Obi?" Tal shouts from somewhere down the hallway. Oberon rolls his eyes, kissing Emilia's forehead before crouching slightly to set the child back down in the crib. So much for bonding time with his daughter.

"Sorry, duty calls." His hand reaches for a stuffed sock bunny in the corner of her crib, walking it over to Emilia before letting it's head droop forward on her leg. "Mister Socks can keep you company while I deal with Mommy. Okay? Good."

He straightens up, smoothing the wrinkles from the sides of his checkered blazer as he turns toward the bedroom. There's a candle flickering just beyond the door, casting shadows across the aubergine walls of the hallway in the shape of Tal's body. Oberon's scarcely crossed the threshold of the room when he spots her, clad in the sheer fabric of a ruby dress, silver rings affixed to her ears and pearls adorning her elegant neck.

"Oh, but you are a sight," he says, striding forward to embrace her. "What's the occasion?"

Tal spins before his arms can twine about her waist, leaning up to kiss him firm on the mouth, dark eyes alight with mischief.

"We're having company for dinner."

"Company?" Oberon raises an eyebrow. "And here I thought this was supposed to be a family night."

Tal grins at him wickedly, tucking a lock of hair back behind his ear.

"Oriana is family," she says, and Oberon's stomach drops. "Or have you forgotten that in the last year and a half?"

"I wish," he mutters, bitterness seeping into his tone. Of course it's Oriana that she's invited - now that the infamous ex-Minister is finally free of house arrest, the press is growing desperate for an interview. Verduin's scapegoat free at long last? Such a scandal. Oberon has to resist the urge to vomit. "Do we have to do this tonight? I just spent twelve hours looking at mutt designs and log cabins with her. Sorry to say my hospitality needs a bit of a break."

"Obi, play nice. She's been through an ordeal."

Tal winks at him, her arms twining around his shoulders as she gives him another peck on the lips. Such a bitch, Oberon thinks fondly, his smile accompanied by an irritated huff. Sympathy for Oriana? Give me a break.

"Good publicity," he says, just before Tal kisses him again. And again. And again. "If you're into that, I suppose."

"Maybe I just want to see my sister." His wife purrs in between her onslaught of smooches, prompting Oberon to laugh before turning away.

"Whatever you say, darling."

We both know you're full of shit.

Dinner passes in a haze. Oberon makes small talk in between sips of wine, nodding occasionally to Oriana whenever she says something worth saying. Naturally, it's Tal that carries the conversation, raving about the Quarter Quell and making occasional jibes at her sister's expense - to which Oriana says nothing. Oberon can't quite tell if the needling upsets her, although to be frank, he's not sure he especially cares. It's nice to be the spectator to Tal's jokes rather than the butt of them. He so rarely has the opportunity to enjoy her sense of humor these days.

Oriana leaves before the clock strikes eight. Tal polishes off her sister's wine, barely touched throughout the meal, likely because the tension hanging over the dining table was intense enough to unsettle her stomach. Oberon uses her departure as an excuse to make one of his own, and heads off to the sanctuary of his office before Tal can offer any protest. It's only after the door clicks into place behind him that he begins to relax, shoulders slumping as he reaches a hand up to unknot his tie.

Fuck, he's tired. Between the job, the Games, and his unexpected houseguest, it's a wonder he hasn't had a heart attack already. There's so much stress these days… can anyone fault him for wanting a break? One bloody moment to catch his breath, sit down, and spend some time brooding in temporary peace?

Damn it, Tal, he thinks, slumping down in the chair at his desk, tilting his head back over the edge as his eyelids start to shut. I ask for one night. One night, just us and Emi, and you have to invite your fucking sister. Can't we just set the work stuff aside for a few hours? Pretend we're a real family with normal lives, rather than the trainwreck couple helming Panem's entertainment industry?

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to clear the bitterness from his mind. There's no point in lingering on his displeasure, especially since things are only going to get worse from here on out. Snow'll see to that, Oberon has no doubt.

…

Speaking of Snow…

Oberon sits up, reaching for the tablet sitting atop his desk. He presses his fingerpad to the lock, waits for the joined lens to scan his facial fingers before the screen lights up, allowing him access to the communique demanding his attention.

URGENT From: Coriolanus Snow [ gamespanem_gov]
Sent 18:17.

To: Oberon Lavellan [gmlavellan gamespanem_ord]

Lavellan,
Please review the attached files before 09:00 tomorrow and report to me before the Gamemakers Meeting.

Sincerely,

C. Snow
Vice President of Panem
Commissioner to the Panemian Gamemakers' Panel
Capitol Bureau of Investigation and Security

The Gamemaker sighs, flipping his tablet off and tossing it to the side. He knows what the meeting is about - Snow's tributes of interest, the set of trigger-happy problem kids that have wound up on the government's kill list. Frankly, Oberon can't help but feel the charade of ensuring losses is unnecessary; this year more than any other. The kids they've been sent for the twenty-fifth are the worst of the worst, each one as undeserving of victory as the others. It's almost a shame that he can't pull a stunt like Verduin and wipe them all out before the end; the Districts would probably thank him if he did. Alas…

I'll check the files in the morning, he decides. For now… I need to sleep. Bed has literally never sounded so good.

Oberon reports to the office at precisely 07:00 hours on Tuesday morning, his tablet tucked away inside his briefcase with a dossier of notes. At 08:45 he receives a missive from an intern requesting his presence in the Vice President's office, for a meeting to be held at "no later than nine o'clock," a missive which allows him barely enough time to dismiss the messenger and grab another cup of coffee before departing his own quartering, briefcase secure at his side, the metal grip slick from the sweat of his palms.

He knocks on the door to Snow's office at 08:59, but is not granted permission to enter until a full minute passes. The world works on Snow's schedule apparently; being early is just as intolerable as being late. Luckily, Oberon possesses enough self-restraint to conceal his eye roll before Snow turns the doorknob to invite him in.

He waits for Snow to sit before taking up residence in one of the straight-backed leather chairs positioned before his desk - both of which, Oberon notes glumly, do not possess any places for him to rest his arm. He holds his mug of coffee awkwardly in his lap as Snow steeples his hands atop the desk, watching the younger man with wary eyes. The mistrust in Oberon's expression seems to pique Coriolanus' amusement, and the Vice President smiles, his face a mixture of warm features made callous by frigid lines… and a sharp jawbone. It seems an age before Snow draws back into his seat, and nods to Oberon's briefcase.

"I trust you remember your assignment."

"Five names," Oberon nods. "Five names for five tributes. It's a bit more than usual, from what I've been led to understand."

"It is," Snow concedes, tilting his head just a fraction. His eyes narrow. "Will that be a problem?"

Oberon shrugs. "Only if interference winds up being necessary." He pauses, running his tongue across the inside of his teeth. "Forgive me for asking, sir, but why Echeverry? The others make sense, but she's just a common rebel - and not one who has done much to stand out, unlike the pair from Five. From what I've read, even her cell is dead. Surely she's no real threat to our security -"

"Ailith Echeverry's claws have been trimmed," Snow agrees. "But Ailith Echeverry will not be entering the Games."

"... pardon?"

The Vice President's smile widens, his teeth on full display. "What did you glean from her record?"

"She's impulsive," Oberon says. "Loyal and dedicated to her cause, but utterly reckless. And emotional. Self-righteous, even? I could see a hint of Verduin in her, now that you mention it…"

"Emotional," Snow's eyes flit to the door, then back to Oberon. His brow pinches, but his smile stays in place. It's a hell of a mask, so real despite being so fake. "Did Ailith Echeverry seem emotional during the reaping?"

Oberon's own brows furrow. "Now that you mention it… no. She wasn't especially expressive, nor especially talkative once she made it to the stage. Blank face, blank stare…"

"Almost as if she were an entirely different person," Snow agrees. He crosses his legs. "Tell me, what did you make of her sister?"

"The girl in the crowd? I can't say I really paid much attention to her, except…" The Gamemaker's jaw shifts, his eyes going wide for all of a second as realization sets in. "Wait. You're not suggesting that…"

"Ailith Echeverry remains alive and well, entirely out of harm's way? Yes, I am." Snow closes his eyes, letting out a small sigh. "Of course, I have no evidence to prove my suspicions, Lavellan, but I would ask you to consider the implications were my theory to be true. Certainly, the sister's gesture would have been a noble one - consigning herself to death for the sake of familial love - but defiance in this day and age cannot be taken lightly. If she were to commit this fraud without seeing any punishment, what's to prevent others from doing the same? We cannot tolerate threats. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Oberon agrees, reaching for his briefcase to pull his notebook from the confines of the leather. "So Echeverry, the pair from Five -"

"Argenta and Velezen," Coriolanus nods. "One is the brute servant for a cabal of drug lords, the other a renegade cult leader who seems to command a following back in his home District. Both are too willful to keep in line - and too dangerous to allow freedom."

"Noted."

The Gamemaker flips open his pad and jots down a note, his pen scratching across the sheets rather audibly with the rapidness of his hand. "So that leaves two… Hollister of Twelve and Atlanshi of Four. Besides the obvious… is there any particular reason we shouldn't allow them a fighting chance?"

"A delusional murderer who feasts on the blood of others is exactly the type of individual these Games were meant to rid the Districts of. Twelve would hardly be grateful if Hollister Crowe were to return to them after he was sentenced to die."

"Senn won't be happy," Oberon notes offhandedly, but the Vice President merely tsks in reply to his comment. Delightful. "Alright. Crowe's a delusional problem child. Bleumoon is…?"

"A special case."

Snow goes quiet.

Oberon blinks as ten seconds pass. Then twenty. Thirty.

"... that's it?"

His companion sighs.

"While Hollister Crowe is most certainly not a vampire, Atlanshi Bleumoon is exactly what District Four claims he is. That, Lavellan, is a special case."

"You're worried," Oberon observes, hesitance stilling his hand. "That's… unlike you, Snow."

"That should speak to the gravity of the situation, Oberon." Snow's words are sharp now. Pointed. "Make sure you get rid of him before he can get up to any tricks. Mark my words, you will regret it if you don't."

A/N: Devil by Shinedown.

Moving into the pre-games officially with the coming chapter. Very excited and I hope you all are too! If you have a moment, let me know what you think of our new Gamemaker - and the budding tension regarding some of our tributes. Subplot is finally starting to kick off…

The favorite tributes poll is still open, and will be through this chapter and then next. Please go vote if you have a moment!